Grey
by endlessmuse
Summary: Set three years after the destruction of Arcadia Bay, Max struggles to cope with her survivor's guilt. A ghost from her past decides that he has a few more lessons to teach her. Extremely dark themes. Mark/Max.
1. The Break-Up

Chiaroscuro. The interplay of light and dark. The manipulation of shadows and contrast. Max had learned how to master these elements in her photography. She had been light once . . . and she had known the darkness. But what happened when there was nothing but grey? Grey was boring and consuming. Monotonous and unchanging. It was an endless no-man's land between the powerful aspects of light and dark. Max was grey.

Her life was unchanging, and she was so lost in this state of death, that she didn't know how to get out. So, Max Caulfield sat alone on an expensive piece of furniture in her high-end apartment in San Francisco. The lights were off, and as it was night outside, the only flickering through the drawn blinds were from the skyscrapers and streetlights in the distance. Chiaroscuro. Max was silent as she sat on her couch, staring at the same spot on the coffee table for hours. She was numb . . . grey . . . exactly what she had been for the past three years since Arcadia Bay.

The sudden ringing of the phone did not startle her. Her eyes were glazed . . . a discarded needle sitting atop the coffee table. Heroin had long since been pumping through her veins, and it kept her in its seductive embrace as it had for the past two years. The ringing stopped, and her old-school answering machine turned on. Chloe's voice came from the machine.

"Max . . . it's me. Look, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to say those things to you." She paused. "You know I love you. I'm just so . . . fucked up! Come back to me, baby. Let me make it right." The message ended there. Max still did not move, save to blink and flick her gaze from the table up to the ceiling instead. Chloe. Of course. As if their blood wasn't toxic enough, Chloe had always ensure their relationship was doubly so. Drugs and fights. Max was tired of it all. As she rested back against her sofa, her thoughts traveled back to the fight that had taken place earlier that night.

" _Will you stop? I didn't steal your fucking heroin!" Chloe shouted as they stumbled out of a nightclub and into an alley._

" _Bullshit, Chloe," Max stomped out after her. "I found a used needle in the trash. I had just taken out the trash! And I know you're fucking out. Because you're such a junkie, you can't make your stash last longer than a week," she grunted._

" _That's great. Go ahead. Blame it all on fucking me. You do with everything else. Always my fault. Ever since Arcadia Bay, I've always been the fuck up," Chloe threw her arms out in exasperation, swaying from the alley to the street. Max followed after her, livid._

" _That's because you are a fuck up, Chloe," she spat. "You don't work. You just sit at home, listening to shit music and get high. I get that because I've become a famous photographer and make a shit ton of money, you feel like you don't need to work, but it's healthy, Chloe. You're not my Stepford wife."_

" _You know what? Stop," Chloe turned back, rounding on Max. "This isn't about me staying at home, and you know it. It's always the same fucking thing. You feel guilty about Arcadia Bay. That we . . . destroyed an entire fucking town, so I could live. Newsflash, Max. They're dead. They've been dead for three years. My mom, everyone! All we have is each other. And we have to stick together, because we're so fucked up, no one else will want us!"_

 _Max stopped then, crossing her arms over her chest. This was so getting old. It was the same fucking thing every time. Either that or a fight about how Max wasn't like Rachel enough. A day didn't go by where Chloe didn't mention Rachel in some capacity. "You're right," she said finally. "They are dead. And I do feel guilty about it. But we didn't destroy it, Chloe. I did. Me alone. It was my decision. Those deaths are on my hands." Her blood-covered hands. "And you're wrong . . . we don't have to stick together." Chloe, though as high as Max, sobered a little and looked at her closely. "I'm breaking up with you, Chloe. For good. I can't keep looking at you. All I see is their faces. We had a good year, but I think that's all we were meant to have. Stay with your other friends tonight. I'm sure they have some heroin you can mooch off. I'm done." With that, Max walked past her. Chloe was gaping after her, calling after her._

And so, Max had come home and shot up some cocaine, and now here she rested, staring listlessly at the ceiling. She loathed herself. She loathed Chloe. She loathed this world and life. She had her fame, of course. Her photos were featured in numerous magazines across the world. She had more money than she knew what to do with. But her spirit . . . her creative muse . . . it was broken. There was nothing but the grey.

She should have let Chloe die in that bathroom. She should have saved the town. All those lives lost, so a junkie could live. The worst of it was her power had vanished once the town had been destroyed. She couldn't go back even if she wanted to. Max sighed heavily, making the first sound since she had arrived. Curling up on the sofa, she held herself. She wasn't going to forgive Chloe. They were finished. They only served to be cancerous tumors in each other's lives.

As they had every night before, the faces of those she had killed trekked through her vision in a parade of horror and rage. They weren't real, she knew this, but her imagination was so vivid, they appeared to her so realistically, she thought she might be able to reach out and touch them. Or that they might reach out and tear her apart with their bare hands. One-by-one, they came, their faces pale, eye sockets dark and empty. Joyce screamed at her for turning Chloe into a druggie. David screamed at her for killing Joyce. Warren quietly asked her why she killed him when all he wanted was a chance. Kate sobbed about not wanting to die after all, and how Max had betrayed her. Each one came, stabbing Max in the heart and making her soul weep.

When she could take no more, Max let the tears fall and buried her face in a pillow. The agony and torment she suffered was too much. Her breathing became erratic as she sobbed, her shoulders shaking. Then she felt a change. A strange calm over washed her, though it didn't feel exactly like it was her own. Her crying stopped, though she still sniffled now and then. Then, she heard him, his voice stringing such a cord in her that she reacted immediately and shot up. "Max Caulfield."

Max looked up through her puffy eyes and saw him as clearly as she saw the others. "Mr. Jefferson," she breathed. He was dressed in his usual outfit of choice. Blue jeans rolled at the bottoms, white button up shirt with a black jacket over it . . . hair stylized in a messy fashion . . . and those modern, hipster glasses carefully placed on the bridge of his nose, black and white.

He smiled at her, unmoving in her dark living room. "Ready for your lesson?"


	2. Crazy

They stared at one another for a long moment. Max couldn't quite believe what her eyes were telling her. "You're not real," she said finally. "You were one of the bodies found in all the wreckage."

Mark smirked, scratching his jaw. "Max, you can do better than that. Just because I'm not alive . . . doesn't mean I'm not real. You're an artist. Where's your imagination?" He gave a smile then. "I guess it's right here, because here I am." He looked around the room, his hands slipping into his jean poclets and moving to the window. "Nice place," he commented. "Oh yes, we would have been very happy here."

"'We?'" Max repeated, scoffing. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. You're a murderer. You tried to kill me, even. I'd never want there to be a 'we' anything."

"Let's not point fingers, Max," Mark sighed. "We'd have all been a great deal happier if you had just kept your nose out of my business. You were my great project, you know," he gave a coy smile, turning back to her. "Max Caulfield . . . the undiscovered talent. I saw your skill even before you did. Oh, I had . . . so many plans for you. For us." For a moment, Max thought she saw the smallest trace of sadness appear in his features. But he moved, and the shadows passed over him, making the emotion—if it had ever existed—disappear. Mark moved to the table and looked down at the needle. "You're an abuser now, I see. This never would have happened under my watch. I hit cocaine, too . . . back in the day. Oh, it seems fun at the time, but you really can't find yourself in your work."

"Are you really going to scold me?" Max shook her head. This was crazy. Crazier than her former power even. "God, have I gone crazy?"

' _Now I'm a little bit crazy_

 _Outta my mind_

 _I'm going slightly strange in the head_

 _It's all a little bit hazy_

 _but I'm pretty sure_

 _I'm gonna stay screwy instead.'_

The song reverberated around her house as clearly as if it were coming from her stereo . . . but the stereo was not on. Mark nodded. "Yes," he agreed. "Man, this song is great. A lot of fun," he laughed, his body swaying ever so slightly to the jazzy rhythm. "Anyway, yeah. You're definitely crazy. I mean you sacrificed an entire town . . . for your friend. Girlfriend," he added. "Who, by the way, only made your life a living hell afterwards. Rachel, Rachel, Rachel," Mark rolled his eyes. "You'd think if she loved you, she'd stop bringing up her old girlfriend, right?"

Max sighed heavily, growing weary of this . . . vision or hallucination or whatever it was. "You're a little late to the party. I already broke up with her. Chloe is gone. So, you can go ahead and leave now. I don't need a piece of shit like you haunting me either."

"Wrong, Max Caulfield!" Mark said loudly, making Max jump a bit out of her stupor. "Come _on,_ you're smarter than that. Why do you think I was going to choose to you to partner up with me? Hm? Not just for your talent." Max was silent as she watched him stare at her. When she said nothing, Mark continued, "because I knew you'd be able to see the world like I did. Look at you," he gestured to her. Mark sat across from her on the couch on the other side of the table. "You're jaded. Cynical. You've seen the worst of this world, and it's tainted you."

Max was full of scoffs tonight. "No thanks to you. You did a great deal of that tainting."

"I had principles though," Mark argued. "No one below eighteen, no playful business with the models. I was in it for the art. I needed it." He paused. "Just like you need it."

This ghost was starting to bother her. Ghost, figment of her imagination, whatever he was. Max curled in on herself, hugging a pillow to her chest. "I don't want you here," she told him plainly. "I want you to leave."

"But I can't, Max. You killed me that night, too. I'm a part of you now. We're . . . closer than I ever imagined we could be," Mark smiled, as if this news brought him happiness. "The simple truth, however, is that you need me. So, here I am. Let the lessons begin. Maybe you'll be a better student this time."

This was crazy. But hell, she was high. She could have a legitimate conversation with a dead guy. "Fine. You're right. I hate myself. I hate . . . this world. There's so much pain in it. So much cynicism and hopelessness. We're all monsters. None more so than me. I lost my innocence that night. I . . . _murdered_ everyone," she gave a strangled noise, her agony resurfacing. Mark just sat, listening. "How many adventures did I end? How many lives did I alter? All the children who won't be born now. All the scientific progress that will have to wait a few more years, because I killed the one who was supposed to crack the problem." Like Warren. Poor Warren who loved her. If anyone was going to find a cure for Cancer, it would have been him.

Max sighed heavily, wiping her eyes. She felt so tired. And it wasn't just from the drug. She, herself, was exhausted. Tired from life. Resting her head on the arm of her sofa, she continued to hold the pillow to her. "And I did it for a druggie who can't take the blame and deals with her problems by getting angry and shooting up." Max closed her eyes tightly. "We were supposed to be happy. How did it come to this?"

Mark was quiet, then said quietly, "you were eighteen. Happy endings can still exist at that age. Or, rather, belief in happy endings. That sort of idealistic thinking can lead to some stupid decisions." Max closed her eyes at that. "But . . . there is hope."

That made her eyes reopen. She studied Mark Jefferson closely. "How?" she asked finally.

That smile that had once made her swoon appeared on his lips. "Innocence."


	3. Innocence

The sunlight replaced the synthetic light from the city as it rose. Another beachside day. Max woke from where she had passed out on the couch. Her hair was sticking out at odd ends, and there was a bit of drool on her cheek. Wiping it away, she groaned and peered around. Alone. She had spoken with Mark Jefferson just as pink started to appear in the sky, the sun rising. Eventually, exhaustion had taken her, and she had fallen asleep right where she sat. He was not here now . . . at least, not that she could see.

Max felt gross and jittery after her high. She also felt resolute. Pushing herself up from the sofa, she went to her shower and took care of business. As she showered, his voice rang out again. "You know, you're really going to need to stop by the local equipment store. What you have is . . . decent . . . but we don't want decent. We need perfection." Max nearly dropped her soap, then glared at the shower door. The steam blocked him from her view, but she saw the dark shape behind the glass.

"What are you doing here? I thought I banished you when I went to bed," Max said, rinsing herself off.

"Max," Mark sounded annoyed again. "I'm in your head, remember? I'm always with you. And I have to say . . . beautiful." Max immediately covered herself up. Mark's chuckle filled the bathroom, bouncing off of the walls. "If that makes you feel better, go ahead. I can still see you though. I can see everything . . . here in your interesting mind. For example," he paused, "wow, you had quite the fantasies. I'm touched, so many of them involve me."

Max blushed immediately, but she gave an irritated grunt and resumed showering. "That was before I knew of how sick of a bastard you were," she told him.

"Mmm," Mark made a noise of approval as he obviously examined some deranged fantasy of hers. "Kinky, Miss Caulfield." Max shivered, and Mark chuckled again. "Yup. I watched the roleplay one. Though, technically, it wouldn't really be roleplay. I _was_ your teacher. Still am, really. Speaking of," Mark got to business, "we need to go shopping. Going on the prowl tonight isn't going to do anything unless we're properly equipped."

"I'm working on it!" Max exclaimed, getting some shampoo in her eye and making a noise of disapproval and pain. "Go away. Let me shower in peace."

"Still not getting the 'in your mind' part. That's okay. I'll be on the homework later. I'll be outside," Mark said, and his dark figure disappeared from behind the glass. Max gave a sigh of relief and continued to wash her hair.

Once she felt more like a human being—a functioning one—she grabbed her purse and keys and headed outside. She knew just what she needed to buy. After all, how could she forget? The dark room was a nightmare she visited frequently. "Oh, come on," Mark said from beside her as she started up her car. "It wasn't that bad."

"You were going to kill me!" Max protested. "Pretty fucking bad, Jefferson. And you kept sticking me with needles! AND you shouted at me!"

Mark huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "I can't help it if I'm an intelligent, good-looking man. Loose ends get you caught. You were a loose end. It isn't anything personal. I like you quite a lot, Max. I had our whole lives planned out. As for the shouting," he shrugged a shoulder, "I tend to get a little caught up in my work." Max rolled her eyes, pulling out into the busy city drive. It was late in the day, people already heading home from work. "Let's not forget though, you actually did kill me. And that one felt pretty personal."

Max sighed, shaking her head. "I can't believe I'm going to do this."

"You'll understand in time," Mark assured her. "Besides, you're not hurting them. Just borrowing them for a little while. It isn't like the tranquilizers are going to kill them. Not unless you're Nathan Prescott and completely fucking stupid when it comes to dosages. Relax, Max. You're going to be fine." They pulled up outside of a photo equipment store, and Max got out of the car, grabbing a cart and heading into the building. Mark disappeared for a time, though he popped up now and then to suggest different lenses and remind her of something like latex gloves and fresh bulbs.

With her equipment in store, Max returned to her apartment . . . only to find Chloe inside, packing her bags. "Hey," Chloe greeted her, not meeting her gaze. Max didn't answer her, merely hauled in her shopping bags. Chloe noticed the new gear and lifted an eyebrow. "New stuff, huh? Looks like a hella photoshoot is coming up." When Max simply walked by her, ignoring her, Chloe became a bit more desperate. "Come on, Max. Talk to me. Are you really this mad at me?"

Chloe followed her to her studio, grabbing her shoulder. Max put her bags down and turned to her. "Chloe, our story together is finished. I'm moving on. So should you." She paused, then added gently, "you need help, Chloe. I wish I could have been the one to do it . . . but I only harmed you further." She turned away from her old friend and lover. "I hope you find your new Rachel." Mark was standing in front of her, and he nodded in approval.

"You're my world, Max," Chloe said quietly. "But . . . I'll give you some time. I'll . . . try to get clean. And then we'll talk again." Max didn't turn around until she heard the front door close.

Sighing heavily, she looked down. "God, I need another hit." She crossed over to the table where she kept her hidden stash, but Mark stood in front of the table.

"Ah, ah. What do you think you're doing?" he asked her, lifting an eyebrow.

"Please, I can go right through you. Leave me alone. I need something to take the edge off," Max waved him away. Mark remained standing where he was. "Go!" she shouted.

"Mhm," Mark crossed his arms over his chest. "And how is you being high . . . going to help our little outing tonight?" he asked her, giving her a pointed look. "It's time to stop the drugs, Max. You need to see the world with your own clean eyes . . . not through bleary, drug-induced ones." He nodded back to the studio room. "Go on. Get set up. It'll be dark soon."

Max shook, feeling the need well up in her almost painfully. Her fingernails cut into her palm where she clenched her hand. She needed it . . . she was going to die if she didn't have it . . . Mark's intense gaze held hers, and she wavered. Eventually, the suffocating feeling faded, and she released a slow breath. Turning away, she focused back on her task at hand. After an hour and a half, her dark room stood proudly and ready to be used. White cloth, strung tight, rested on the floor and against the wall. She'd even painted the wall surrounding the cloth with a bright white. Testing the lights, she was pleased with the contrast and brightness, and then prepared her needles.

She was ready.

* * *

The club was pulsating with life. Music more up Chloe's alley than her own deafened over the chatter. Max was sitting at the bar, her gaze traveling along the crowded dance floor. She wore a short black dress that ended in a bit of a schoolgirl skirt. Definitely not an innocent dress. Casting her gaze along the dancers, her vision was slightly impaired by how dark the club was. Strobe lights were going off like crazy, different colored lasers in different shapes shining down on the grinding mob of people.

Max wasn't even sure who she should be looking for. She felt completely out of her element. Not to mention, what was she even doing this for!? Because a little devil told her to? Wasn't she supposed to be ignoring that voice? But then . . . What if this helped her? What if it saved her? She hadn't felt the thrill from art in a long time. The photos she took were fantastic, of course, but she hated them. They weren't her. Not really. She'd try it once, and if this didn't fix her, then Mark Jefferson could go fuck himself.

"Ouch," Mark murmured in her ear beside her. "I can think of someone else who'd rather fuck Mark Jefferson." His tone was teasing, and she gave him a sidelong annoyed look. He knew she couldn't speak to him. People, besides herself, might think she was crazy. "Having second thoughts, Max?" She gave a small nod. "Understandable. I was nervous my first time, too. But I promise . . . once you get her under your camera . . . you'll understand." Max made a gesture towards the large crowd, demonstrating her inability to find the subject. "You're looking in the wrong area." Mark nodded further down the bar, and Max saw her. She looked shy . . . uncomfortable. Clearly, she had joined some friends here, and then her friends had abandoned her to dance.

Max moved down the bar, then sat casually beside the young woman. She was around her own age. That was good. Couldn't be too old. She ordered the girl a drink, and they chatted. Max learned that she was a teacher. A kindergarten teacher fresh out of college. Her other teacher friends had brought her here. She was quite alone and new here. Perfect. Max knew a thing or two about seducing women. So, she praised her, confided in her, made her feel special . . . and when Max saw the girl—Mary—relaxed, she made her move. Slipping on a latex glove underneath the bar, she leaned in to whisper in her ear and pressed the needle gently into her leg, so tiny, Mary didn't feel a thing.

The effect took a bit. Max watched Mary's face closely. She spoke slurred for a little while, and then her eyes started to droop. "Check her eyes for reaction," Mark whispered in her ear. Max waved her hand in front of Mary's face. Her eyes remained unfocused . . . unseeing. "Take her." Max wrapped Mary's arm over her shoulders and left the club. To the unknowing eye, they simply looked like friends helping one another out after a night of too much drinking.

A half hour later, Mary was undressed, save for her lingerie of course, and placed under a silk sheet instead. Max hesitated at first, camera in hand. The lights were on, the room blinding. She stared down at Mary, her stomach twisting. "She looks . . ."

"Delicate?" Mark offered, moving to stand beside her, his hands clasped behind him. "Oblivious to the horrors of the world? You have a perfect muse here, Max. She hasn't been ravaged by the world yet. Difficult to find one over twenty who still retains that purity. She's a gem. Look at her."

"I am," Max sighed. "I don't see it."

"Then you're not looking," Mark said simply.

Giving a sharp exhale of frustration, Max lifted her camera to her eye and looked at Mary. She snapped a few photos, not feeling it . . . and then it happened. The light touched Mary's cheek just as she opened her dazed eyes. Mary was still obviously out of it, unable to see anything around her. But the light illuminated her, and Max _saw_ it. "Wowzer," she breathed, and her finger pressed the button faster and faster. The innocence shined from her, and Max felt it restore a part of her. There wasn't any grey here. There was white, and then a quick switch to black. Max was astounded by the beauty, and she reveled in the fact that she was preserving this for Mary. She'd never see it, of course, but five years from now when Mary found herself in the grey, Max would always have a part of her that was beautiful and untouchable.

Mark was humming in approval. "Excellent shot, Max," he said, peeking over her shoulder to see them. "Look at her eyes there. That's a portfolio shot right there." Max smiled, pleased with this critique. There were, of course, the harsher critique as well. "Amateur. Come on, that's photo booth shit. Too fuzzy. Do it better, Max!" and so on.

The photoshoot continued into the early morning hours. It was when Mary started to look around that Max knew she had to stop. It was incredibly difficult to resist giving her another dose and doing more work. Mark cautioned her. "There's always more. We have to return Mary into the world now. Cover our tracks, so we can keep working." Max agreed. So, she redressed Mary and drove back to the club. She set her at the bar once more, her head resting atop the table top, then snuck through the dwindling crowd and left for good.

When she returned to her home, she felt elated. For the first time, she was amazed that she felt _anything_ besides guilt and self-loathing. Instead, she felt a fever she hadn't felt since she'd first attended Blackwell. "I need to do it again. Tonight," she told Mark, who was looking quite pleased with himself as he rested his back against a wall. Max was looking through her camera, pulling them up on her computer.

"You have to be smart," Mark told her. "That means no more drugs ever. It makes you stupid. No drinking during a hunt either. And always use gloves. Never keep them longer than the tranquilizer will keep them out for. One slip, and all of this goes away," Mark warned her.

"I can't believe you were able to do this for so long," Max breathed, gazing up at him. "I didn't get it before. All I saw was my friends looking trashed and scared. I saw perversion."

"And now you see beauty and innocence. Something so genuinely lacking in this world. Everything is . . . so fake. Falsified. Overdone. The faker the better, society tells us. True beauty is in the moments where our fear overtakes us," Mark told her. "It is only then that we discover whom we truly are, too. For example, I found you to be quite the fighter. Resilient to the end."

Max smiled, then looked up at him. "And you? Whom were you at the end?"

Mark looked down, biting his lip for a moment. "Scared," he answered as truthfully and bluntly as he did with everything else.

She frowned at that, looking back down at her computer. There was a silence that stretched between them for a few minutes. "I'm sorry my decision killed you," she said finally. "Sort of . . . sort of wish I had chosen to learn instead."

Mark shrugged a shoulder. "It's okay. Grudges are sort of redundant once you pass over. And hey . . . they have quite a kickass gallery here. I mean, what do you expect? Van Gogh, Karsh and Cartier-Bresson are here, so fresh stuff keeps popping up."

Max's eyes widened in amazement. "Heaven has an art gallery?"

Mark winced. "Let's not call it that. If it was Heaven, I'd definitely be in Hell, right? Murder and all. This is simply . . . what's next. But that's way too much of a metaphysical conversation, and secrets are secrets for a reason." He shrugged. "Besides, we both know I'm really just in your head."

"Mhm," Max grunted dubiously. "Well, my Photographer Angel, what do you think?" she turned the computer towards him. Mark peered at the screen at the image. It was a photo of Mary, the innocence blaring, but a trace of fear peaking in at the corner of her eyes.

"Exceptional," Mark breathed, obviously in awe. "Not bad for your first folder, Max."

"One down," Max smiled. "Countless to go."


	4. Heat

Two years had passed by, swiftly, eventfully, and yet as Max drove down the highway, taking the exit to the remains of Arcadia Bay, it was as if the five years hadn't passed at all since the last time she had set foot here. The trees were still knocked over, some stacked, others still resting over crushed homes. Main Street was nearly impossible to drive through, but a small path had been cleared for cars going one-way. As there wasn't any traffic, Max didn't run into any problems. Her gaze was sad as she observed the destroyed businesses. The Two Whales was barely recognizable. Only the sign above it allowed Max to see it and recognize it.

Mark was beside her, quiet as he gazed at the destruction as well. "They never rebuilt?" he asked her, finally.

"No point, really. Everyone died. Prescotts, too. It wasn't a successful town towards the end, anyway. So, it's become a ghost town." Some graffiti was sprayed onto a few buildings, bored teenagers obviously having snuck into the town and played in the ruins. Max drove down a dirt path towards the barn. She had to go around a few fallen trees here and there, but her car made it.

"I died over there," Mark told her, looking at a tree that was split. "David had found me, dragged me out . . . I was in the back of his car headed for the police station when that tree fell on us. Killed us both. It was quick, at least. A brief sting of pain, and then . . . nothing." Mark looked over at her. "Could have been worse. I know some people suffered. Bled out slowly." Max shivered. "It's okay," Mark assured her. "You can face this. You're ready."

Max sighed. "I know. I just . . . I wish it hadn't been like this. We could have been . . . partners," she smiled over at him.

Mark smiled back. "We'd have been more than partners."

They drove to the barn, which was nearly entirely gone. The roof was off, and only one wall remained standing. All of the rest of it had disappeared. Max parked her car and grabbed her bag. Carrying it into the space, she found the bunker and opened it. Walking down, a few lights flickered on and off, before remaining on. "This bunker was made to last," she commented as she went down . . . and entered the dark room. Everything had remained untouched since the last time she had been here. Her chair was even still in place, the straps open.

Max hauled the heavy bag further within to the cabinets. Opening them up, she saw the red folders lined with care. Names stared out at her, and where they had one filled her with dread, now she was intrigued. Pulling them out one-by-one, she looked at Mark's work. It was incredible what she saw. Some of the models were better than others, but all made her heart beat faster. A couple even brought a few tears to her eyes. "Beautiful," she breathed.

Once she had looked through all of them, she placed them tenderly back into the cabinet, then took out her own red folders. She had just as many as those stored here. Gently, she placed them in the cupboard as well, her handwriting contrasting nicely beside Mark's. Max stepped back, looking over the room. This had been a place of terror for her . . . once. Now, she felt tranquil under the bright lights. Forgotten and undiscovered needles rested in a neat row on a tray. Those had stopped piercing her skin a year and a half ago. She was clean.

Hell, she had even returned to shooting for magazines and galleries again. Her name was being exalted in the art world . . . if only they knew. "They wouldn't understand," Mark said, sitting himself on the couch, draping a leg over the other. "We come from a society obsessed with rules and understanding things at face-value. Subtext is a dying language. One could argue that art is dying as well. We've become so worried about apologizing to one another and being correct that we forgot the truth pain can tell us."

"Preaching to the choir now, Mark," Max said, plopping down on the couch beside him and throwing her feet up on the coffee table. "I know I can't show my work to the world. It isn't ready. Maybe, a hundred years from now, when this place is discovered along with those folders . . . maybe then, it will be ready." Probably not though. The human race was fallible. Aliens though . . . they might appreciate it. Max looked over at Mark then, observing him. "You look real, you know," she told him. "Now more than ever." She wondered if following in his footsteps had somehow empowered him. "It's almost like," she reached out and touched his shoulder, expecting nothing to be there . . . but her hand touched fabric.

Her eyes widened, and she quickly drew her hand away. Mark's lips slowly pulled into a smirk. Okay, maybe that was a fluke. She reached out again and slowly pressed her fingers to his shoulder once more. Sure enough, the fabric of his jacket met her fingers. More than that, she felt hard muscle and bone underneath. And warmth. She felt warmth. How? What? Did she just become even more crazy? Max didn't let the thoughts pull into her another cycle of insanity. Instead, she went with it and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him against her and kissing him deeply.

Mark's larger body easily pinned her down against the sofa and kept her there. Max delighted in feeling his weight over her. How long had she wanted this? Dreamed of it? Then she had hated him. After that, she had wanted him more than ever, and this was startling and yet inevitable realization that her clinging to him. The coarse hair of his goatee scratched against her lip and chin, making their kissing a stark contrast from the softness that had been Chloe's mouth. This was rough and painful. And beautiful. Her fingers wove their way up through his hair, gripping the short strands between her fingers. Mark gave a throaty hum of approval at this action, and Max felt the vibration from the sound against her belly. It nearly made her laugh.

They likely kissed for years, though in reality only minutes. Max was surprised to find that his mouth tasted like spearmint and a hint of rich scotch. It was an oddly addicting mix that had her probing her tongue all along his mouth. Mark was just as thorough in his exploration. Max was breathless by the time he released her lips. They felt warm and full, likely swollen. She looked into Mark's gaze, saw the heat there. It was a pinpointed intensity that had her spine shivering in erotic excitement. "This has been a long time coming, Max," Mark told her quietly, and he rose up on his knees, slowly removing his jacket . . . his shirt . . . and then his belt. "Our joining was just as inevitable as the turning of the Earth. Dark and light. We are the forces that bring life," he told her, sliding her shirt up effortlessly over her head. "You are the sunrise." He lowered his head and gave little suckling kisses against her neck. Each one managed to hit sensitive little spots that had her cooing and squirming underneath him in aroused delight. "And I'm the sunset."

Her blood was pumping furiously in her veins. Heat exploded over her skin and was centering in her core. Max felt entirely useless as he undressed her, but she knew this was how he wanted it. Her teeth bit into her lower lip as she watched him examine her once her bra and jeans and little panties were removed. His gaze was nearly a tangible thing in itself. Wherever he looked, she felt a near-warm caress. That gaze could set a glacier ablaze. As Mark lowered his head to her breast, his tongue deftly playing with one of her nipples, Max gasped out sharply in pleasure. His tongue was stimulating her nipple in just the right way. It was sending an electric impulse of pure pleasure right to her clit, which throbbed painstakingly.

Her hips jumped with every jolt, rubbing up into him desperately. "Mark," Max panted, grabbing his hair tightly and arching up into him. "Mark, no more teasing. I made us wait so long." He certainly seemed to agree with that. His lips returned to hers, and she was lost in his kiss once more, her mind hazy and dizzy from all the desire clouding her thought patterns. Max did manage to hear the sound of a zipper, and then the crumple of fabric as his pants fell to the ground. His lips broke from hers, and she made a sound of disapproval. But then she watched him as he angled himself up with her entrance. Max was soaked, and as she was no stranger to penetration—the strap-on was used for both herself and Chloe—she was unprepared for the warmth and length of him.

Mark slowly inched himself inside of her, and Max was left panting heavily and making small grunts of effort as she opened up for him. Her arms swiftly moved up around his shoulders, and she embedded her fingernails into his skin. Mark growled at that, the sound driving her insane. At last, he pushed himself fully inside of her, and Max felt sufficiently full. "Oh!" she breathed sharply, his hot skin scalding against her own. It was such a wonderful burning of flesh though. Her breasts—small though they were—smooshed up against his chest as he lowered down to press every inch of them together. "Go, Mark!" she urged, her hips moving already, working him inside of her.

She felt his hand squeeze in between the sofa and her back, anchoring himself, and then he began to thrust in and out of her. Max's jaw dropped immediately at the coupling pleasure that followed. "Mark!" she gasped sharply, her entire body arching towards him. "Oh god, Mark!" Was it _supposed_ to feel like that? Max gave tiny whimpers of bliss, shuddering as his lips once more attacked her sensitive neck. She felt him moan against her, more so than heard him. Each sound he gave was a delicious vibration against her body. There was one problem though . . . he was going entirely too slowly.

Her legs wrapped around his hips, keeping him within her, but then Max started to buck her hips underneath him, demanding more from him. Mark growled at that, and he gripped her hips, pinning her down firmly and keeping her from moving. She struggled against him, and he bit her neck sharply to make her submit. Max gasped loudly, the pain mixing perfectly with the pleasure. Each powerful thrust had her seeing constellations and black holes and supernovas. She was killed with every movement, and then reborn immediately after. No one could live after receiving this much pleasure.

"Mark! Yes! Oh god, yes!" she cried out, her voice ringing out in the dark room. The sofa was groaning underneath them, obviously not used to seeing such activity. Max felt Mark panting against her, his hot breath warming her. He was just as urgent as herself. They were racing one another, climbing higher to a peak that almost terrified Max to approach. Her clit was throbbing woefully, and she lifted up to rub herself against him, sighing in relief. Mark was surprisingly sensitive to her plight and moved his hand between them, rubbing over the sensitive bundle of nerves.

The little caresses had her careening in pleasure. "YES! OH! FUCK!" Her eyes went wide in amazement. Max was rapidly losing control, and if Mark's erratic thrusts were anything to go by, so was he. "Yes! Faster! Oh fuck me, Mark. Fuck me!" she cried out, her toes starting to curl. The pleasure was becoming too intense. She couldn't handle it. The fabric of her reality was being torn to shreds. Her body moved uncontrollably underneath him, and she was making such inhuman sounds, she likely would have been embarrassed if she hadn't been through Hell and back.

One more swipe from his artful hands, and her body exploded. She tightened and came in deep throes. Mark cried out against her. "Max!" She felt him tremble between her twitching thighs, and then a wetness fill her inside of her. It was warm and somehow made her feel even fuller. Max was panting heavily, a soreness pricking at the edge of her senses, but she pushed it off for now. Instead, she held onto the lingering feeling of floating down into a warm cloud. Her arms remained locked around Mark's shoulders, and he panted and stilled against her as well. Max closed her eyes, resting her head against his. Silence stretched between them, broken only by their heavy breathing.

A feeling was felt by both, but spoken by neither. They were beyond words now. Words could only cheapen what they shared. Max made the mistake of shifting, and something changed. Opening her eyes, she found herself alone in the dark room, fully clothed, her hand shoved into her pants. Her fingers were soaked, and she had obviously just orgasmed. But . . . Mark wasn't here. Had he been there at all? Max released a breath, removing her hand from her pants and relaxing against the sofa.

An idea came to her then. An idea so beautiful it brought tears to her eyes. "I know my next project," she whispered. "It's time the Apprentice became the Master."


	5. Home

Light after light was turned on, the room brightening to an almost blinding state. She dusted off the area for the photoshoot, then set down the stands for the cameras. Mark was watching her curiously, his arms crossed over his chest. "You're certain you want to do this, Max?" he asked. "It's quite the statement."

"I'm not trying to make a statement," Max told him, angling each camera, so the lens was pointed at the area she had marked on the floor. "It will complete our collection," she said simply. There were six cameras in total, all pointed at the same point on the floor. Most of them were Mark's cameras, and she had to charge them up before she could use them. Each one, she accessed the settings, and then programed them to take a picture every five seconds. "What time is it?" she asked, setting up the last camera.

Mark glanced at the clock on the computer. "5:37."

"Alright. Chloe will be here soon," Max nodded. Her hands were shaking, but she clasped them together, closing her eyes. She could do this. She had to do this. The letter was situated neatly on the computer desk, explaining everything. She hoped Chloe would come through for her. She owed her this.

Crossing over to the coffee table, she picked up the needle and filled it with the clear liquid. "Will you be there?" she asked Mark, hesitantly, looking over at him. "It's not going to change things. But it'd be nice."

"Max, I've always been with you. A little demon on your shoulder," Mark smirked.

"My own dark angel. Who showed me the truth of art and innocence," she corrected him. "And likely damned my soul as well." She shrugged a shoulder. "I suppose it doesn't matter what comes next. That isn't the point." There wasn't any use waiting any longer either. She was resolute. Max removed her clothes, and then took out a simple white dress she had unconsciously packed. Or perhaps Mark had packed it for her. Who knew anymore? Putting the white dress on, she combed her hair and washed off any makeup she had put on earlier, which was really more of a lip gloss than anything.

Once she was properly attired, Max laid down on the area she had marked. The cameras all pointed down at her. "What was that you said you loved, Mark? The shift from black to white to grey?"

"And beyond," he added quietly.

Black, white, grey. The story of her life in color. Or not-color. Whatever philosophy one wanted to believe in. All that was left . . . "And beyond," Max whispered, reaching for the needle. "Not too amateur to be your protégé now, am I?" she asked, the needle injecting into her, the sedative filling her.

"No," Mark agreed quietly. "You were always meant to be my assistant. My partner. My equal."

"No offense," Max said, rolling the needle away and turning on the cameras. They flashed one-by-one, going off with their set timers. "But I think I've surpassed you at this point." Mark smiled at that, looking quite proud. She laid back, keeping her face pointed towards the cameras. The flashes slowly began to extend as her vision became hazy, her breathing slowing. "Mark," she whispered. She heard his answering voice and asked, "how do they look?"

Mark examined the lens. "Beautiful," he replied, his voice in awe. "Perfect. I've never seen anyone so perfect."

Max wanted to smile, but her face had become numb. Everything was numb. Her brain was buzzing as well. Her view of the cameras began to fade as she was pulled into sleep. Fear laced her. Death was so final and unknowable. What would happen to her? Her breathing picked up just a little bit, her heart struggling to keep her alive, pumping fiercely, frantically, fluttering . . . but the sedative was too strong. She loosened, and her eyes closed, the last thing she saw one final bright flash of light. Her body surrendered, and she slipped away . . .

* * *

 _With a start, she awoke. Max breathed in sharply, looking down at herself. She was still in the white dress. Pulling it down to her knees, she pushed herself up and looked around. She was on a . . . sidewalk? Before her was a large building, classical music playing within. Furrowing her brow, Max pushed open the door and walked inside. Her eyes widened at the sight before her._

 _The walls were lined with seemingly endless artworks—photographic, painting, everything. People dotted along them, looking and speaking at a normal volume to one another, as opposed to the usual quiet murmur she was used to in art galleries. The hall seemed to go on further, everything made of white marble. It was bright here, too. So very bright. When she took a hesitant step forward, the group of people closest to her turned and examined her. After a moment, they seemed to recognize her and clapped enthusiastically._

" _Max Caulfield!"_

" _Welcome!"_

" _Love your work!"_

" _Bravo, Maxine!"_

 _Max smiled up at their faces as she passed through the crowds, murmuring her thanks. A few touched her shoulder in greeting and congratulations, but one hand lingered. Turning, she saw him, standing just behind her, ever in that black outfit he never changed. His black and white glasses flashed underneath the bright lights, and he was smiling openly. His hand lowered to take hers within it. Max looked down at their hands, feeling his warmth, and knowing this time it was real. She squeezed his hand, lacing their fingers together._

 _Mark gazed at her in wonder for a moment. Then, as the wonder smoothed into warmth, he murmured, "welcome home, Max."_

The End.


End file.
